Captive Heart
by DreamsofSpike
Summary: AU from "The Undiscovered Country" - Olivia convinces Rafael to accept a plea deal which results in his going to prison for just a few short years. She thinks it's far better than the risk of his being found guilty and spending the rest of his life in prison. She may be very, very wrong about that. Warnings: non-con, prison, abuse
1. Chapter 1

At first, he insists he's going to fight this – refuses any and all deals offered to him, intent on proving his innocence. In the end, it's Olivia who convinces him: a guilty verdict could mean the rest of his life spent behind bars. The offer from the DA's office is, frankly, stunningly generous: a guilty plea to a charge of voluntary manslaughter, a class B felony, in exchange for a sentence of five years, with the possibility of parole after three.

"A guilty plea means I lose _everything_ , Liv," he argues, tired and harrowed like she's never seen him before, late one night sitting cross-legged on her living room floor, a nearly empty glass in his hand as he rubs one hand across his eyes. "A felony, _any_ felony, costs me my license… I'd never practice law again."

"If they find you guilty of first degree _murder_ , you could never breathe _free air_ again," she points out, reaching out to take his hand, urgency in her voice as she pleads with him. "It's _three years_ , compared to the rest of your life!" She's quiet for a moment, waiting until he reluctantly meets her eyes to deliver the finishing blow. "I don't want to lose you."

He stares at her for a long moment, and she sees surrender in his eyes, a moment before he drops his head against their joined hands, then leans in to rest against her knees. In the hushed, safe privacy of her dimly lit living room, the reality is slowly sinking in, for both of them – how this may be the last time they're here, together, for a very long time.

He won't lift his head for several minutes, and she doesn't try to find out if it's because his face, like hers, is streaked with tears. She just runs her fingers through his hair, comforting herself as much as him with the reassurance of his presence. He's still _here_ , with her, for the moment – and she'll hold on as long as she can, to as much as she can.

Three years is a long time, but it's not a lifetime; she's not willing to gamble with all that's left of his life.

In the years to come, she'll learn just how long three years can be, and she'll wonder again and again how things might have been different had she not pressed him into this choice – but for tonight, it's enough to know that the days he'll be away are not countless, that her best friend in all the world _will_ come home to her.

She has no way of knowing that he'll hardly be the same man when he does.

They won't let her visit him for the first three days – something about processing and security protocol. She spends those days wrapped in a haze of frustrated tension, distracted with worry that she knows will dissipate as soon as she can see his face, can reassure herself that he's as all right as he could be, given his circumstances.

Her position earns them a private visitation room. She's relieved to see that Rafael looks all right, as he enters the room, escorted by a guard. He's not limping, no visible bruises on his face or arms as he's led to the large metal table in the center of the room and seated across from her. She can't help casting a resentful glare toward the guard as he cuffs Rafael's wrists to the table, before moving to stand just inside the door.

"Are those really necessary?" she asks, reaching out to touch his wrist, studying his skin for any sign of injury. The skin is barely red from the irritation of the metal.

"Yes, Lieutenant Benson," the guard replies, apologetic, but frowning and taking a step forward. "No physical contact, please."

Rafael pulls his hands back first, the short distance that he can, his eyes focused on the table, and Olivia fights down her smoldering indignation at the sheer indignity of it. She's never seen him so subdued and obedient, and while she knows it's best that he is, in here – it still fills her with a quiet, protective fury. She sits back in her seat, folding her hands on the table in front of her.

"He's not dangerous," she argues. "And if he was, I'm more than capable…"

" _Liv_." His quiet voice, breaking his silence, silences _her_. He looks up at her at last, sorrow and affection mingled in his eyes, belying the rueful smile on his lips. "It's the price for privacy," he points out, his voice quiet and careful. "This is a maximum security prison. At least we're not talking to each other through a sheet of glass."

She's quiet for a moment, torn between her protective instinct, and the knowledge that he's right.

 _Trust Rafael Barba to be as pragmatic and rational as ever, even here…_

"There is that," she concedes at last with a sigh, returning his smile, drinking in the warmth in his eyes. She commits it to memory, knowing she'll have to make it last.

It's a week before she can visit him again.

"What the _hell_?" she protests, rising to her feet at the sight of the dark bruise across his cheek, the blackened curl around his left eye. "What happened?"

"A couple of my fellow inmates were offended by my, ah… existing near them, apparently," Rafael sighs as he sits down across from her, holding out his wrists to be fastened to the table. He doesn't look at her, and she hates the trace of shame she hears in his voice, his hesitation before admitting, "I expected a difficult transition. I'm not exactly the most popular guy in here, Liv." He swallows slowly, his voice soft. "I'm a former ADA convicted of _child murder_..."

She doesn't try to contest the accuracy of his words. They've had enough discussions about the choices that have led him here for her to know that Rafael does not feel that what he did was murder – and also to know that he's _haunted_ by his actions that night. She focused instead on the most immediate problem.

"You're supposed to be in protective custody."

"I am," he assures her, his tone mild, his gaze not quite meeting hers. "And the protective custody unit is filled with the sorts of other prisoners who'd be likely targets in gen pop – people like rapists and child molesters and other sex criminals that… _I put here_."

Olivia's stomach drops; she hadn't considered that particular side of Rafael's situation. She shakes her head in alarm. "That – no, there has to be some alternative…"

He does meet her eyes then, sharp and certain. "There isn't. Gen pop would be worse. The only _alternative_ is solitary confinement, and…" He swallows slowly, glancing away before meeting and holding her gaze. "You know I can't live like that, not for _five years_ , Liv." He's quiet for a moment, his voice softened as he reassures her, "The PC unit is the best option. The guards keep a closer eye on things there. They just – can't be everywhere at once. Someone got to me, just for a minute, and then they saw and broke it up. That's all."

Olivia can't help thinking about what might have happened if the "someone" who "got to" Rafael had had some kind of a weapon besides their fists.

When she returns to visit him again the following week, the bruises have started to fade.

So has Rafael.

He's quiet. His smile is hollow, brittle, and doesn't touch his shadowed, evasive eyes.

For the first time, he's the one to end the visit, claiming exhaustion. She frowns when he flinches – just slightly, almost imperceptibly – as the guard reaches for his wrists to unfasten the cuffs from the table. She watches as he walks away, trying to decide if he's plodding a bit because he's tired, or doing a remarkable job of concealing a limp.

She's troubled as she drives away, realizing – during the entire visit, he didn't meet her eyes once.

The visits that follow do nothing to assuage Olivia's fears; in fact, she's more and more worried, unsettled by Rafael's increasingly withdrawn demeanor, and the fresh bruises she sees each time he enters the visitation room.

He insists that it's nothing he can't handle, nothing that isn't to be expected. There's always a story, some reason or excuse for why his "protective custody" wasn't quite protective enough.

"We knew I was going to be a target," he reminds her. Then a moment later, weary and defeated, "… I brought this on myself."

Her heart just _stops_ for a moment… then is overwhelmed with a deep _ache_ at the shame in his voice… the quiet _acceptance_ , as if this is something he _deserves_.

"This has to stop," she declares, quiet but fierce. "This is _going_ to stop."

The next time she goes to visit Rafael, a few days later – she's turned away.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, Mr. Barba has taken you off his approved visitors list," the woman at the counter informs her, detached and disinterested behind the glass barrier through which she speaks.

"He _what_?" Olivia is stunned. "No, there has to be a mistake…"

"No mistake," the woman insists, glancing back at her computer screen. "It says right here, 'prisoner requests Olivia Benson be removed from approved visitors list', lists the date of the request and everything."

Olivia notes the date with a sinking heart.

Rafael requested that she not be allowed to see him anymore, the day of her last visit.

It isn't hard to find a way around the rule – takes her a week or two to work it out, but then she knows what to do.

She picks a cold case, one they'd worked on together, and uses it as her ticket inside. Doesn't matter if the prisoner _wants_ to see her, not if he _may_ have crucial information that just _might_ lead to a break in her case. It isn't a visit, it's an interview. She's there in an official capacity.

She tosses the folder in her hand down on the table and doesn't pick it up again for the rest of the visit. Instead, she focuses on Rafael, taking in the fresh bruises on his face, and more disturbingly, around his wrists.

"What happened this time?" she asks, her tone cool and careful, trying to mask her rising fear and frustration.

He doesn't answer, doesn't look at her. His hands tremble a little on the table, until he notices and folds them tightly together, an anxious swallow visible in his throat.

"Rafa, what the hell?" she asks, her voice hushed, leaning across the table and seeking his eyes. "Come on, _talk to me_."

He's leaning back as far as he can in his chair, eyes steadily downcast.

"Why did you take me off your list?" she asks, barely managing to mask the hurt she feels. "Why are you – pushing me away?"

He swallows slowly, his jaw clenching, eyes averted as he finally responds, slow and clipped. "Because I do not _want_ you here."

It feels like a slap in her face.

"Why not?" she demands. "Rafael, you need your friends to get through this…"

"No, I don't," he snaps, glaring up at her for a moment, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "You're the only one who comes to see me, anyway – and I wish you wouldn't. I _asked_ that you wouldn't."

" _Why_?" she repeats, desperate, confused.

"Because you're only making this harder." His voice is thick, hoarse, and he stares down at the table again. "Seeing you," he clarifies, his voice rising with bitter resentment as he goes along. "It just – makes this _all_ – harder, and – and I know what I have to do to get through this, and I know how long I have to get through it, and I don't need you showing up on one more of your righteous hero crusades, just… fucking things up even worse."

Olivia flinches, stunned by the harsh, accusing words. "Rafael, I – I'm not…"

"I _don't… want_ you here," he repeats. " _Please leave_."

She stares at him in disbelieving confusion for a long moment. "Rafael – Rafa, _no_ …"

"Fine." He cuts her off sharply, rising to his feet, though he's brought up short by the chains that bind his hands to the table. He closes his eyes for a moment, visibly swallows back his frustration, and then turns to the guard, voice quiet and submissive. "I'd like to go back to my cell now, please."

The guard complies with Rafael's wishes, over Olivia's protests, and he disappears without another word to her – definitely limping, this time, she notices.

But there's nothing she can do.

He's shut her out, far more effectively than he ever could have done if he was free. She can't call him, she can't come to see him without manufactured motives – and she knows there's nothing to be gained by blatantly disregarding his wishes. She could come back the next week with another cold case, if she wanted to – but she knows it would just push him farther away.

She talks to the captain about her concerns, but he brushes them off – clearly utterly disinterested in what may or may not be happening to the ADA who's recently shamed the district attorney's office and, as far as he's concerned, the entire law enforcement system of New York City. She does a little asking around, tries to find someone who might be able to get more information – but gets shut down at every turn.

She seems to be the only person in the city who's at all concerned with the safety and well-being of ex-ADA Rafael Barba.

About a year into his sentence, he calls her.

She only knows it's him by the electronic voice, informing her she has a collect call from a prisoner at Riker's Island Correctional Facility, and asking her if she wishes to accept the charges. She doesn't hesitate, heart racing in alarm and anticipation.

But she doesn't hear his voice.

There's dead air on the line, maybe a soft intake of breath? She can't be sure.

He doesn't say anything – but the call hasn't been disconnected, so she knows he's listening.

She fills the allowed five minutes that follow with everything she's stored up in her heart for the past year – telling him how she loves and misses him, promising help and support in any way he needs, any way she can possibly offer it. She tells him he's strong, tells him he's good, tells him he doesn't deserve to suffer alone, or at all.

She _begs_ him to speak to her.

He doesn't.

She doesn't see him or hear from him again for two years.

She thinks of him often, worries about him, and reassures herself with the cold comfort that if he'd been killed, or even hurt _too_ badly, she'd have heard about it on the news. He's still a household name in local circles, and she hopes it's enough to offer him some measure of protection – the protection she wanted to give him, but has been rendered incapable of doing so.

Her phone rings, and she answers… nearly dropping the phone when she hears that same tinny, recorded message once again, from Riker's Island. When the call connects, she swallows, her mouth suddenly dry, before managing to get out his name in a hoarse whisper.

"Rafael?"

"Hey, Liv." His voice is soft, hesitant. "I – I know it's been a long time, but – I'm calling to ask you for – a ride. In a couple of days." He's quiet for a long moment, her heart racing with hope, thoughts racing with confusion, before he explains, "My parole was approved today. I – I'm coming home."


	2. Chapter 2

She sees him as soon as she turns into the prison parking lot – standing on the curb outside the main entrance, a small plastic bag containing his meager belongings under one arm. He's dressed in the strategically chosen outfit he wore to his sentencing: a rather subdued, for him, blue dress shirt with nice black pants, instead of one of his usual snazzy suits.

 _I want to respect the judge and the court, but I don't want a bright, shiny target on my back the second I walk into Rikers…_

She can clearly remember the upward quirk of his knowing smile, almost as well as she remembers the underlying dread in his eyes – because it wasn't a joke, not really. Not at all. It didn't matter how he dressed for prison; his profession, his reputation, his conviction, all meant that he _was_ going to be a target. There was no preventing that.

Olivia knows better than to think that didn't happen. She saw the bruises for herself, in the too-brief time between his sentencing, and when he cut her off. She doesn't want to imagine the hell that prison has been for him – especially now, when he's _standing_ there, alive and free and taking a hesitant step forward as he recognizes her car.

She can hardly get it in park fast enough. She doesn't even close the door before heading toward him, meeting him just a few steps off the curb and wrapping her arms around him. He freezes for just a moment, but she holds on; it's been too long since she could embrace him like this, and she just wants to prove to herself that he's here, that it's real. She won't waste time letting it be awkward.

And after just a moment, he's hugging her back fiercely. She can feel the fine tremor in his body where it presses up against hers, can feel the way his fingers work gently in the soft fabric of her shirt.

 _Of course, he needs the_ evidence _even more than I do…_

"You're really here," she finds herself whispering, not sure which of them she's reassuring. "God, you're _here_ …"

She hears a soft sniffle next to her ear before he reluctantly draws back. His smile is sad, his eyes warm and wet as he counters quietly, _gratefully_ , " _You're_ here."

"Of course I am," she says, finally taking the chance to look him over up close. Her heart sinks when she sees the dark bruise on his cheek, the split at the corner of his mouth that can't be more than a day or two old. She reaches up a cautious, gentle hand, not quite touching. "What happened?"

He shakes his head, smiling, though it's brittle and false, and he suddenly can't quite meet her eyes. "It doesn't matter anymore," he answers.

It's _not_ an answer, but she lets it slide, because she can still read him like the day he left… and he's holding it together, but just barely. His voice is unsteady, his eyes welling with tears, and she suddenly can't stand how very vulnerable he is in this moment. She glances up at the dozens of barred windows behind them, wonders who might be looking down on them, and can't tolerate the idea of someone taking satisfaction in watching him break.

If it's going to happen, she has to get him away from here before it does.

"Come on," she says, reaching down to take his hand. "Let's go home."

He allows her to lead him to the car, tossing his bag into the back seat before getting in beside her. He's quiet for a moment before venturing softly, "So… whose home, exactly? Since… I don't have one at the moment."

"Mine," Olivia speaks with certainty. She's been anticipating this particular battle, knows how proud he is, how loath to accept anything he sees as a handout. "Until you can get a place of your own, you're staying with me."

He's quiet for a long moment, and she's sure he's readying his counter-argument. She braces for impact, mentally going over her pre-rehearsed points as to why it's the most reasonable course of action, as she pulls onto the bridge leading back to Manhattan.

"Okay," he says at last, soft… a little shy.

"Okay?" she echoes, dubious. "That easy?" He lets out a little laugh, and she grins. "I mean, not that I'm complaining…"

"It's not like I've got a lot of options at the moment," Rafael points out. Before Olivia has time to even register the vague offense she feels at being his last resort, he continues, softer, "And… to be honest, nothing sounds better to me right now than just… falling asleep on your couch with you and Noah, halfway through a Disney movie."

She reaches over and takes his hand again, feeling too choked up to answer immediately. When she can, she replies, "That – that sounds great."

"I won't impose on you for long," he assures her, looking out the passenger window. "I do have some money put away, in my mother's name, and – I'll start looking for a place right away…"

"Have you talked to her? Does she know you got out today?" Olivia inwardly winces at the questions, hoping they don't sound intrusive or accusing.

"No, she – I haven't…" He swallows hard, staring down at his lap, self-consciously withdrawing his hand.

 _So, Lucia got cut off, too…_

Olivia is caught between a very selfish sense of relief – at least it wasn't just her that got rejected and pushed away – and a deep sense of grief for her friend, and how utterly alone he's been for the last three years.

"I know she's going to be thrilled to see you," she says, trying to keep her tone light. "She may even want you to stay with her."

"That – won't work," Rafael lets out a short little laugh. "She'll just want to… mother me, seeing as she's my _mother_ , and… right now I really don't need to be fussed over and monitored and asked every five minutes whether or not I'm okay, all of that. I need… not that."

She catches the sideways glance he's giving her as he speaks, and she can't suppress the knowing smirk that rises to her lips. She looks over to meet his eyes for a moment, raising a single brow. "Subtle."

"… has _never_ been my strong suit," he admits with a smile.

"I'm not going to smother you, Rafa," Olivia promises. She hesitates a moment before adding, "I mean, I'm _here_. If you _do_ need to…"

"I know." He looks away again, something dark and shadowed settling over his face. "I won't. It's – it's over. It doesn't matter anymore."

She knows _that's_ a lie, but she doesn't have the heart to call him on it.

Not today.

Instead, she talks to him about Noah and about the squad and anything she can think of that he's missed while he was away. She asks him if he's hungry, suggests his favorite Cuban restaurant downtown, and isn't surprised or disappointed when he wearily, apologetically asks if they can just do takeout tonight. They pick up some Chinese food and head home – but the nearer they get, the more puzzled Rafael looks.

"This, um… are you making another stop, or…?"

"New place," Olivia explains. "A little nicer, a little more space." She smiles, glances over at him. "Three bedrooms."

"Oh."

He sounds so lost, looks so caught off guard. Olivia reaches over and gently pushes his leg, winking when he looks up at her, and assuring him, "Same couch, though. Same movie collection, give or take a few."

It eases the tension across his brow, makes him smile, and she feels better. They take the elevator up to her floor, and she calls out as she unlocks and opens the door. "Hello?"

"Mom!" Noah's voice calls back, excited, from the kitchen, followed by hurried footsteps.

Rafael freezes, wide-eyed. "He's home?"

"It's Saturday," she reminds him, noting the inexplicable panic on his face. "He's been really excited to see you."

Rafael swallows slowly. "He – he remembers me?"

"Of course he does." Olivia reaches out to give his hand a supportive, reassuring squeeze. "He asks me all the time about his Uncle Rafa."

Rafael draws in a soft, sharp breath as Noah comes racing around the corner, running straight at him.

"Uncle Rafa!"

Noah hugs his legs, and Rafael crouches down to hug him back, eyes closed over Noah's shoulder, his jaw working as he struggles to maintain control. Olivia blinks back tears of her own, smiling. She knows this is probably therapeutic for Rafael, given the last three years and his self-imposed isolation. She knows first-hand that Noah's hugs are capable of washing away a multitude of sorrows.

Olivia pays Lucy and tells her what time to come on Monday, while Noah takes Rafael's hand and drags him off to show him his bedroom. She gathers paper plates and plastic silverware and sets out the food on the coffee table. Noah accepts Rafael back as if he'd never left, settling in close to his side on the sofa when Olivia calls them to eat before the food gets cold. As Olivia sits down beside them and picks up the remote control, she sees a light in Rafael's eyes that has been missing since before he left.

When the food is gone and the movie is over and Noah is fast asleep on the sofa between them, his head resting on Rafael's lap, Rafael reaches across the back of the sofa to touch her shoulder. She looks up at him, surprised to see tears in his eyes, his expression stricken with shame and regret.

"I'm so sorry, Liv," he confesses. His voice is hushed so as not to disturb Noah, but she can still hear the note of anxiety there as he tries to explain. "I – I shouldn't have – have pushed you out, but I – I didn't know what to – I – felt like I _had_ to…" He stops abruptly, looking away. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

She reaches back and clasps his hand in hers, wishing she could get closer to him without disturbing the sleeping child between them. "You don't have to explain anything to me, Rafa," she assures him. "You did what you felt you needed to do, to get through it. And you don't have to try to make me understand the reasons why." She hesitates before adding with a warm smile, "It doesn't matter anymore, right?"

He closes his eyes, nods, draws their clasped hands to his lips to kiss hers, resting his head against it and letting out a heavy sigh. "I missed you so much," he confesses, his relief clear in every tearful syllable. "I – I wanted to talk to you so bad… so many times."

 _Then why didn't you?_ she wonders, suppressing the frustration she feels when she thinks of all the times she longed to hear his voice, how desperately worried for him she was, left with no way to know if he was even _alive_ , let alone all right. Instead, she just smiles at him, warm and reassuring, and says, "You can talk to me anytime you want, now."

"Good to know." He returns her smile, but it's a weary smile, and his eyes are heavy-lidded. "For tomorrow. I think for now, I'm just destined for a shower and like, fourteen hours of sleep."

She puts Noah to bed, and then shows Rafael to the room she's set up for him – fresh linens on the bed, a dresser emptied out and ready for his belongings – and then to the bathroom down the hall. She hands him two clean towels, hugs him again and kisses his cheek before heading for bed herself; she'll shower in the morning.

"Night, Rafa," she says softly. "It's so good to have you home."

Rafael closes the bathroom door behind him, marveling for a moment at the simple fact that it's _there_ , and that it locks, and that no one can enter this room unless he let them. He swallows slowly, an aching knot in the back of his throat, his eyes burning as he carefully undresses, folding his clothes and setting them in a neat stack on the bathroom counter. He's only been wearing them for a few short hours.

The evening has left him more than a little overwhelmed – but not necessarily in a bad way.

He expected to have to pay for his sins – his rejection of his best friend, the pain he's caused her and her son. He didn't expect Olivia and Noah to make coming home so easy for him.

He doesn't deserve it.

He turns on the water and adjusts the temperature until it feels right – not too hot, not too cold, the pressure amazing, not at all like the perpetually cool, unreliable but reliably weak stream of water that always came from the showers at Rikers. He steps under the spray and pulls the curtain, closes his eyes. He shivers despite the heat of the water, the pleasant, warm pressure against his skin. This is nothing like the showers at Rikers – it's safe, and warm, and private, and no one can touch him here.

And yet still, his memories assail him, his heart racing, stomach lurching with dread of something that won't happen – not anymore.

 _Never again…_

Rafael's strategy upon entering Rikers was simple – just try his best to remain as invisible as possible. The less attention he could manage to attract, the better. So he stayed in the background as much as he could, tried not to make any waves, to be as quiet and inconspicuous as possible. And at first, it seemed to work. The protective custody unit was smaller than the other units, and it was easier for the guards to keep a close eye on the prisoners during their daytime activities. The cells were all single occupancy, so he didn't have to worry about his safety at night.

Rafael waited four days into his sentence before taking a shower.

He knew he couldn't go three to five years without one, but the thought of being so exposed and vulnerable amidst so many potential enemies left him sick with dread. There wasn't much choice, though, so the fourth day, when the guard came around and offered him a shower, Rafael gathered his clean change of clothes, his prison-issued towel, soap, and shampoo, and followed the guard down the hall to the shower room.

There was a large public area with benches where several men were getting dressed after their showers, but the showers themselves provided at least some small measure of privacy, in that each shower was set into a small alcove of tiled walls on three sides, about as tall as Rafael, about a foot wide on the top, so that he could set his clean things there and they would not get wet while he showered. Rafael liked the fact that no one could actually see him in the shower.

He did not like the cornered feeling once he stepped in, the knowledge that if someone decided to come over and start something, he would be blocked in, unable to escape.

The shower itself was uneventful. It did feel good to get clean after putting it off for so long, and Rafael felt a sense of relief as he took his towel and fresh change of clothes from the shelf and moved to step out of the shower.

His path was immediately blocked by a large man with a muscular build, a bald head, and a vaguely familiar leering smile. He was completely naked, one arm braced on the shower wall, hemming Rafael in.

"ADA Barba, good to see you again," he sneered.

Rafael swallowed hard, one arm clutching his belongings to his chest, the other free and ready to defend himself if necessary. He raised his head to meet the man's eyes, keeping his tone level and even. "Wish I could say the same. Let me pass, please." He didn't even remember the man's name, but he thought that pretending to remember him would probably be the less insulting option, and therefore less likely to get him hurt.

"Nah, I don't think so."

The guy's smile faded as he took a step closer, reaching out with one meaty fist to snatch Rafael's bundled belongings and toss them carelessly to the floor behind him – half in and half out of the shower stall. Rafael kept his gaze lowered, focused on them, watching as water slowly seeped into the clean fabric. His voice was low, careful, as he held his hands out in front of him in a gesture of appeasement, which did double duty by having them ready to strike if he needed to.

"I don't want any trouble…"

The large man's eyes were hard and angry as he snarled, "You already asked for it."

He lashed out with far more speed than a man his size should have been capable of, backhanding Rafael and knocking his head back against the shower wall. Dazed and dizzy, Rafael nearly went down, but the man caught him and spun him around to face the wall, shoving him up against it.

Panicked adrenaline flooded Rafael's system, and he fought to escape, trying to push back, but his hands slid against the wet tile, unable to find purchase. And then, a strong grip caught his wrists and pinned his hands above his head, a large, naked body pressed in close behind him. Hot breath against his ear made him shudder as the man leaned in close.

"I've been hoping to get this chance for a long time…"

"Taylor."

 _Randall Taylor, convicted of four counts of rape in the first degree, sentenced to 20 years, four years ago…_

Rafael's mind supplied the information, useless and too late. The hands on his body went still, and he did too, waiting, his heart racing.

"Let him go."

Taylor hesitated a moment, but then reluctantly obeyed, squeezing hard enough to make Rafael's wrists ache, before releasing him with a shove and taking a step back. "Just getting to know the new guy, sir," he remarked flatly. "Just – initiating him."

Rafael shivered, taking advantage of the return of his freedom of movement and personal space to turn around so that his back was to the wall, rather than to his attacker. The guard who'd stopped Taylor was casually leaning down, collecting Rafael's scattered things from the damp shower room floor.

"Not your call," he informed Taylor as he stood up straight again. "Back off and leave him alone."

"Yes, sir." Taylor grudgingly acquiesced to the command, surprisingly easily.

"And not just today," the guard continued, his tone sharp and warning. "That means every day. Clear?"

"Clear," Taylor grumbled, casting a resentful glare in Rafael's direction before stepping past the guard and moving out into the main shower room.

With the huge, lumbering man mountain out of the way, Rafael could get a clear look at his defender – young, conventionally attractive, blond with striking ice blue eyes. His name tag said "Maris". He met and held Rafael's gaze, a smile of cool amusement on his lips as he raised his voice so that the entire room could hear him.

"Same goes for the rest of you," he announced, his voice taking on a slow, almost mocking drawl as it slid over Rafael's name. "Former ADA Rafael Barba here is officially off limits to all of you." He paused, looking Rafael slowly up and down with a vague sort of contempt that made Rafael wish that he had something to cover up with. A sick chill went down his spine as Maris concluded, cold and disgusted, "No matter _what_ he's in for."

Rafael dropped his gaze, swallowing back the sick feeling of dread he felt at the guard's words. How many of his fellow prisoners already knew _exactly_ what he was here for? Most of them, probably; they did have television here, and the story had been all over the news. Would the prisoners listen to Maris's orders? Taylor had, rather easily. But what about when Maris's back was turned? Would they still take his orders seriously. For that matter, did he even _mean_ them seriously? Maris had rescued him from Taylor's advances, only to proceed to draw attention to his crime in front of about a dozen other prisoners.

Was he trying to help him, or to ensure his utter destruction?

Maris took a step forward, and Rafael automatically moved back a step, but Maris just held out Rafael's belongings and placed them in his arms. Rafael drew in a shaky breath, nodded in acknowledgement, and started to leave the shower stall as Maris stepped back as if to allow it.

Abruptly, Maris's night stick was in his hand, and he swung it lightly, tapping it against the shower wall six inches in front of Rafael's face and holding it there. The movement was intended only to block Rafael's path, but the impact echoed against the tiled walls, causing Rafael to flinch back, his heart pounding in his chest. Maris didn't say a word, didn't move, and Rafael forced himself to look up and meet the other man's eyes.

They were cold, over a condescendingly patient smile. Maris's voice was deceptively soft, touched with an unmistakable edge of warning.

"Say thank you."

Rafael's mouth was dry, his heart racing. He lowered his gaze, managed to choke out a quiet, impressively controlled response.

"Thank you."

His eyes were carefully focused on the shower floor at Maris's feet, but Rafael was still acutely aware of the guard's calculating stare for several more interminable moments. Finally, Maris put his night stick away and stepped back, indicating for him to pass with a dramatic little flourish of his hand.

For the next week, no one else dared to so much as look in Rafael's direction. It was an answer to his questions, about how much influence and respect Maris might have among the other inmates. It did _not_ provide an answer as to his motives. The certainty of safety from assault at the hands of his fellow prisoners was not the comfort Rafael would have thought it to be.

He couldn't keep himself from wondering… what price would he pay for it?


End file.
